


Not To Be.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-06
Updated: 2003-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things were just not meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not To Be.

Some things were obviously not meant to be, James thought as he contemplated the bottom of his whiskey bottle. He had tried first bourbon, then straight rum, and was on to whiskey. He had run out of vodka two days before but was in no condition to leave his flat. And last he looked, no one delivered alcohol. A pity.

He had killed Alec.

He had killed his best friend. His old lover. The other half of his soul. The one thing that had kept him alive through so many years, the one thing that had kept him alive since Archangel. Revenge for Alec. Revenge for 006.

But revenge had brought him to Ouromov, who lead him to Janus. And Janus was Alec and Alec was Janus and never...

Never.

Never the twain shall meet.

James almost cut his hand as he threw the whiskey bottle at the far wall. All this time he had kept himself alive on the hope of vengeance, of holding Ouromov's life in his hands and then pulling the trigger. After that? There was no after that. Perhaps suicide in the small shrine he had built for Alec and then a small burial in Scotland with Alec's picture still clutched in his hand. But he had never given much thought to After. There was only Vengeance. Vengeance for killing his lover, and in cold blood. Alec had submitted and Ouromov killed him.

James had killed him.

Alec had given his life into his lover's hands and James had dropped him. Deliberatly.

James swore harshly. Repeated the gutteral words in as many languages he knew and some he didn't.

'I'm alone.'

'Aren't we all.'

"Fuck," James exhaled. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. And hell in a handbasket." M had told him it wasn't his fault that Alec had died, but what did the bitch know about it? Sir Miles had understood. Had kept James from any suicide missions for the two years following until it had looked like James had recovered from his bout with love. Had offered an ear and Cognac and a choice of missions. A chance at a vacation, even. The new M had no idea what it felt like to have a comrade die under her command, to know that he could have saved his friend, his best friend, the other half of his soul...to know that if only (and here James swallowed hard on a dry throat), if only he had been a second faster, he could have had a smiling Alec in his arms once more. An armful of bouncy, smiling Alec. Beautiful Alec. Cold Alec. Completely ruthless. Completely perfect.

And his.

James refused to cry. He had made his choice. He had acted in betrayed anger and what he had done could never be taken back. He had drawn the proverbial line in the sand and Alec had refused to jump to his side. And so he had died.

But the fall hadn't killed him, and that knowledge chewed at James more than the thousand doubts that still lingered from Archangel. James could have saved Alec. He could have saved him, could have brought him back home. Could have kept him safe, away from MI-6's prying eyes. Could have nursed Alec back to health, could have kept him close always.

'You're late, 007.'

'Had to stop in the bathroom.'

Bugger it all to hell, of course Alec had always been better. *He* would never have let duty interfere with his heart. *He* would have saved James.

Alec would have jumped down after him.

They could have had a nice laugh about it afterwards.

He could have kissed the scars on Alec's cheek and nipped at the raised flesh. Neither of them were new to scars and James had almost allowed himself to look forward to exploring the maze of them on Alec's face. He could probably have brought Alec to orgasm playing only with the scar tissue. Yes.

Dammit all to hell, why hadn't he begged? Why hadn't he gotten on his knees that night and begged to be captured, to be taken prisoner while on mission and never turn up again. He should have knelt, kissed Alec's aristocratic feet, and begged for forgiveness, for forgetfullness, for everything to go back to the way it all had been. And then James might have had a chance of getting back in Alec's bed.

But some things are just meant not to be.

James didn't believe in God, or the Virgin, or any sort of diety. But he did believe in love and that Alec had loved him, once. That Alec would have taken a bullet for him. That Alec would have died for him.

He had never allowed himself to think that Alec...

'Ready to save the world again?'

'After you, 006.'

Too much. It was all too much. James finished his fourth bottle of pure alcohol of the night and set it next to the others. Perhaps later he'd play that quaint game of spin the bottle. And when it landed on Alec's eternally empty chair, he could stand. He could point his pistol at his heart and discharge the round of blanks he'd put in for target practice. He could play target practice with his chest.

Blank number one: the hollow of his throat. Alec's favorite playing ground, marked more times than either of them had ever bothered to count.

Blank number two: above his right nipple. Alec used to pinch the skin there, turn it rosey before going on to more delicate areas.

Blank number three: the tuck of his stomach, where Alec used to curl up. Alec believed that James was destined to be his eternal pillow and James would easily have detonated a thousand bombs to be the place where Alec always rested his head.

Blank number four: between his nipples. Alec always, always stopped to listen to James' heart beat. Loved to hear it speed at his attentions, loved to know that what he was doing had an audible effect.

Blank number five: the scar on the inside of his left elbow. Alec never could resist running his tongue over it, tasting the sweat mingled sometimes with blood.

Blank number six: the tip of his foreskin. Alec had always considered it his after-dinner treat.

But he had bullets in the drawer and it would be so easy, so easy to end it. To join Alec down with the Devil. Maybe there he could convince Alec to forgive him, old friend, I wasn't thinking. I was wrong, so wrong.

But Alec wouldn't forgive him, not for that.

Some things were just not meant to be.

Because some things were just not meant to be.

 

'James, for England.'

'For England, Alec.'


End file.
